


Beggars Can't Be Choosers

by Salmon_I



Category: The Old Guard (Movie 2020)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Gen, Guilt, Pre-Canon, Suicidal Thoughts, Survivor Guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-01
Updated: 2020-09-01
Packaged: 2021-03-06 22:42:09
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26226592
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Salmon_I/pseuds/Salmon_I
Summary: Copley showed him his research, and Booker wondered what Andy would think of it.  Nicky would preen, he thought.  Not for the deeds themselves, but because he had always believed it was fate and destiny that laid their path.  Joe would want to rehash every story the board touched upon. Correct the pieces the articles or books had wrong.Booker looked at the board and just felt more alone than ever.  So many lives touched, and yet he couldn't have told you some of the names on the list.  They were just someone whose life brushed by his.  Transient, forgotten until he was presented with them here and now.
Comments: 12
Kudos: 64





	Beggars Can't Be Choosers

Booker sighed as he waited for Copley to wake up. The team he had attempted to kill him with lay dead around them, and he’d considered moving him in case there was a backup team. They were mercenaries, though, he could tell - and not very good ones. He doubted if there was a backup team that they’d be better than the first team.

He helped himself to more of the wine that Copley had while he waited. He should have known better than to meet with him. The rule about no repeats was there for a reason, and Andy would have his head once she’d heard about his slip up. Joe and Nicky would be no help - probably just stand in the corner and snicker as she railed into him for the amateur mistake.

He downed another glass as Copley finally groaned and began to wake up. It would have been kinder to kill him while unconscious - but he had to make sure there were no others. That this wasn’t a group effort.

To his credit, Copley didn’t freak out from the dead bodies or finding himself tied to a chair. He glanced instead at Booker - studying him, looking for something. "You don't have a scratch on you."

“You hired rank amateurs." Booker replied.

"It was short notice."

“I could find better on short notice.” He came to stand in front of him, drinking from the glass he held. “So, what do you think you know?"

"You're immortal."

Booker snorted. "I'll take some of whatever you've been drinking."

"I know it's true." Copley wasn't deterred by his dismissal. "I have records. Pictures. Articles."

"Ridiculous." Booker dismissed, but in his mind he was already trying to piece together how much Copley could have found. How many pictures of them might exist.

"Please…" The pain in his voice froze him in place. "My wife is… she's going to die."

He met Copley's eyes, broken and desperate. It might as well have been a mirror. "What does that have to do with me?"

"Whatever… whatever you are, can you-"

"No." He cut him off before he could get further.

"Please, whatever you want-"

"I don't want anything. I am not some demon or god, or mystic creature who can bestow this curse on others." His lip curled back as he faced him down. "This either happens to you or it doesn't. That's it."

"Why?" Copley asked.

Booker shook his head. "That way lies madness." He told him. He should kill him. Find his research; destroy it. No loose ends.

He could still hear his son, sobbing one moment, cursing him the next. Copley's wife was dying. Somewhere in the city she was alone in her own hospital bed - waiting for the man before him to return and comfort her with his presence.

Andy was going to kill him.

He cut the bindings on one of Copley's arms and dropped the knife in his lap. "Go back to your wife. Enjoy the time you have. Forget about immortality, Copley. Believe me when I tell you it isn't a gift she would want."

* * *

  
  


He left him alive, but he knew he was a potential danger still. He hacked into his computer; his cellphone. Bugged his lines. Watched for signs of him contacting others about them.

Two weeks later his first monitoring system went down. There was an email from an unknown address in his box.

"I would have killed to have a man with your skills on my team when I was with the CIA."

Copley, the little shit. He cursed him out in five languages, aloud - he never responded to the email, and made a new monitoring system. He'd changed the passwords on all of his devices, and he had to hack in again.

Over the following six months, it became almost a game. Copley was the best Booker had ever faced, and a part of him - loathe as he was to admit it - was enjoying it.

Sometimes in the emails he always sent - the braggart - Copley attached pictures and articles. His research. Booker deleted them from the cloud, but stored them on an external hard drive. Maybe someday the team would like to see them. After Copley was dead and no longer a threat. Fifty years give or take.

Then Copley's wife died.

They weren't friends or colleagues, Booker owed him nothing. He sent flowers anyway. He used the name Sebastian Le Livre on the condolence card.

"Thank-you for the flowers, Sebastian Le Livre," Copley's next email said.

In for a penny, in for a pound.

"They were my wife's favorite." He emailed back.

Andy was going to kill him.

* * *

  
  
  


A mission the following year went to hell. Andy declared they were taking a break, and when she left she left alone. Booker loved Joe and Nicky, but hell if he was playing third wheel to their whatever-number honeymoon.

He told them he was just going to see where the wind took him. No plan. He actually didn't know he was lying until he was looking up Copley's address. He brought a very expensive bottle of cognac.

Copley showed him his research, and Booker wondered what Andy would think of it. Nicky would preen, he thought. Not for the deeds themselves, but because he had always believed it was fate and destiny that laid their path. Joe would want to rehash every story the board touched upon. Correct the pieces the articles or books had wrong.

Booker looked at the board and just felt more alone than ever. So many lives touched, and yet he couldn't have told you some of the names on the list. They were just someone whose life brushed by his. Transient, forgotten until he was presented with them here and now.

Back before he realized that asking 'Why?' could drive you insane, he would ask it often, silently.

Why was he permitted to live when so many died around him?

Why was he forced to live the agony of death over and over if he was just going to awaken again?

Why was he sentenced to lose those he loved and not be allowed to follow?

Why was he, a criminal and deserter, chosen to have a place among warriors?

If he came from modern times, he would probably have made a crack about someone pushing the wrong button when he died. Instead he just stopped asking.

"You've done so much." Copley was clearly impressed.

"Andy drives us." Booker told him.

"Andromache the Scythian." Copley sounded awed.

Booker snorted, not because Andy wasn't impressive - she was - but because she'd probably kick Copley's ass if he ever fawned over her in person.

"How does it happen?" Copley finally asked him, several cups in. "How do you know?"

"You die." Booker told him. "And then you wake up again."

"But how do you know-"

"I was hung for deserting. For three days I experienced death over and over. Until I finally found a way to get down."

Copley's eyes were wide.

"I told you, your wife would not have wanted this gift. We don't stop hurting, we don't even really stop dying. We just get back up."

"You mentioned a wife… I mean, was she your first wife or -"

"I've only ever had the one." Booker was quick to correct any assumption there. Experiencing that loss once was more than enough. "She was mortal. She died of old age. She didn't want me near her in the end. I was unchanged, and it only reminded her that she was not."

"I'm sorry."

"My eldest son died in battle before her. He didn't awaken as I had. I think she blamed me for that, too. My second, that was a factory accident shortly after her death. My youngest, though, it was cancer that took him."

Copley met his gaze. "That's why you didn't kill me, isn't it? Because of my wife."

"People shouldn't die alone. But look on the bright side, Copley. She didn't die cursing your name because you could not save her."

"Your son…?"

"I could not share my immortality with him. I'd have drained every ounce of my blood if I thought I could, but I couldn't. He didn't believe me. A father is meant to protect his children. I was a failure in that, too."

* * *

  
  


Copley found him in the next city he went to. He brought liquor with him, and Booker decided that was worth not slamming the door in his face.

"Did you ever try to figure it out?" He asked on their second bottle. Copley probably wasn’t drinking as much as him, but he also knew he’d come alone. No contacts. He was still monitoring him.

“Which part?”

“How it all works. If it can be used to help others.”

Booker considered him for a moment. He’d never told the story to anyone. Copley would be dead in less than fifty years, he reminded himself. “I was a forger, well, I wasn’t always. I was a bookbinder, but times were hard. I had a family to feed, and forgery paid better. Until I was caught. It was the prison or the army. Of the two, the army had the higher survival rate.”

Copley refilled their glasses. “Whose army?”

“Napoleon.”

“Incredible.”

Booker snorted, but made no further comment. “I wasn’t the only deserter that winter, but I was unlucky enough to get caught. After I died three days hanging, I died another three days from the cold. That was when they found me. Andy and the others. I had just deserted one army, and now they wanted me to join their’s. I told them to go fuck themselves, and went home.”

“You didn’t.”

“I did. I wasn’t a soldier by choice. I wasn’t even a particularly good one. Andy would probably tell you I’m still a pretty shitty soldier.” He couldn’t help but grin at that.

Copley laughed, swirling his drink in his cup, but he could tell he was drinking in the story more than the wine. “So you went home to your family.”

“I did. My two eldest were already born, my youngest was born after I returned. Jean-Pierre was 42 when he died. The last survivor. I didn’t go find Andy and the others right away. I wallowed in my misery for a while. Then I was struck with an idea. Maybe my son was right. Maybe there had been a way to pass this on.”

Copley set down his drink. “This would have been the second half of the 19th century?”

“I found a doctor, showed him my secret. I let him experiment. What do you know, about 19th century medicine?”

“That it wasn’t always very sanitary or safe.”

“Lucky or unluckily for me I couldn’t die from either reason. Well, I could and I did, but I just got back up.”

“How long did you...?”

“I wasn’t really keeping track of dates then. The doctor, he became obsessed. I found out that in his search, he started going after others - people who could die. Who did die.”

“What did-”

“I killed him, Copley. I ended it. No loose ends.”

Copley regarded him for a moment. “Why am I still alive?”

“You shouldn’t be. And if the others learn of you, you won’t be. Do yourself a favor. Forget about us.”

  
  


* * *

  
  


He got an email from Joe and Nicky and a brief phone call from Andy. They weren’t regrouping yet. Maybe it was that loneliness that led him back to Copley’s door. There were more pictures on the board now. His lips quirked in amusement at the painting of the Napoleonic soldiers. When Copley’s back was turned, he picked up a pen and wrote “Booker?” by the soldier with the bottle - in Copley’s handwriting. It took him a week to notice.

“So, is it you?” He asked him.

“I was committing forgery to feed my family, where do you think I had the money at that time to drink?” He pointed out.

“You’re a damn good forger, by the way.”

“You should see what I can do when I really try.”

It was going to end badly, this tentative friendship. Andy would tell him so. Nicky and Joe would probably encourage it, say something about it not meaning less for the short time it would last. They used to know the names of the neighbors around their safehouses. Used to greet them every morning, and chat with them over coffee. These days it was too dangerous to make any kind of connection. Too many pictures, too many people talking from all over the world. Too many chances of it all spiraling out - unraveling their secret.

Copley had discovered too much - he’d told Copley too much. It was never going to end well.

“So, you’re the tech guy. How much do you know about modern medicine?”

“We heal faster than anything modern medicine has to offer - we don’t really need anyone versed in medicine.” He told him.

“There’s been incredible breakthroughs. It’s nothing like it used to be. It’s sterile, clinical. Safer.”

"Why do I feel that probably depends on your location and wealth?" He couldn't help but counter.

"You're right, of course." Copley conceded. "But what I meant was… would you ever consider trying again?"

"So, is that what this is about? You want a lab rat?" He felt a flash of anger and betrayal, but Copley shook his head.

"It wouldn't be like that. It might be as simple as a couple ounces of blood to unlock it all. You do know they take blood samples all the time? It's quick, and it's not that painful."

"I'm not that out of touch to not have seen that before." Booker waved him off.

"Isn't a blood sample worth the rewards? There might be a way to pass on your gift. To end disease and suffering."

"People think they want to live forever because they've never experienced it. The world changes around you, people you love are lost to time. This isn't a gift. It's a curse."

"People wouldn't lose their loved ones if they could choose." Copley argued.

"And if I refuse you, what will you do?"

"Keep buying wine and trying to convince you?" He'd suggested. No threat of violence or coercion. That's when he began to trust him. A mistake? He still wasn't sure.

* * *

  
  


The anniversaries of his sons' deaths always hit him hard. Nicky and Joe called him in the morning to suggest meeting up in a few days. They knew he always spent the anniversaries alone, but this was their way of looking out for him - making sure to drag him back to the present day and away from the bottle after. Some years he appreciated their concern, others it agitated him. He wasn't sure how he felt this year, more numb than anything, He agreed, though.

Andy pounded at his door at 12:01am the morning after.

"Boss, you gotta be kidding me." He groaned even as he let her in.

"You better have saved me some booze."

They watched the sunrise together, passing a bottle between them. "You ever wonder if the next death will be the one that sticks?"

"Of course. We all do."

"Do you ever wish it would be?"

"Depends on how much you boys have frustrated me that day."

"C'mon, indulge me." He'd ignored her teasing.

She regarded him silently for a moment. "No would be a lie." The words hung between them for a moment, before she sat forward to place a hand on his knee. "You're still in this shitty game with me, Book. Don't forget that."

He dreamed of Quynh drowning. Her despair. Her rage.

When he woke up, Andy was gone.

* * *

  
  


"With these samples, could you figure out how to end it? Could your modern science make us mortal again?" He didn't bother to lead with anything else.

Copley opened the door and let him in.

**Author's Note:**

> I don't believe Booker had one meeting with Copley, and decided - sure, I trust him enough to risk everything on his say so. I'm also sold on the fact this did not start out as him agreeing to the other's involvement. Merrick and Copley discuss samples taken at the false mission site first, followed by Copley saying he can get one of them. He's only working with one of them - which definitely lends itself to the original plan being for Booker to be experimented on.
> 
> Historical serial killer reference? What historical serial killer reference? *coughcoughcough*


End file.
